


Hello, Goodbye

by tryslora



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Anger, Angst, Community: wizsprogs, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Miscarriage, Mpreg
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-15
Updated: 2012-02-14
Packaged: 2017-10-31 05:11:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,054
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/340299
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tryslora/pseuds/tryslora
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry has always wanted children, but knew they just weren’t possible since he was gay. When Neville tells him that truly <i>pure</i>blooded men can have children, Harry jumps at the chance. But when Neville miscarries, both men are distraught, and must rely on each other to heal.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Now

**Author's Note:**

> **Prompt:** #126, the sad one (For prayer_at_night)
> 
> Dear Requester, your prompt made my heart ache. I wanted to take a chance on it, and I hope this fits what you were hoping from. The title of the story comes from the title of a Michael W. Smith song. And of course, JK Rowling owns these characters and this world, I just love to play with them.

Harry sits by the bed in St. Mungo’s, Neville’s hand pressed between both of his own. He bows his head, letting it fall against their clasped hands. “I’m sorry,” he murmurs. “I’m so sorry. Just—don’t let me lose you, too.”

The fingers he holds flex, just slightly, but it’s enough to show that Neville is still there, and still fighting. He has always been so stubborn, and Harry prays for that stubbornness to see him through.

#

“The prognosis is good, Mr. Potter.”

“Harry,” he corrects the healer. “Just Harry, please.”

The healer looks uncomfortable. “Of course. Harry. Mr. Long—Neville,” he corrects himself at Harry’s look. “Neville is getting stronger. The blood replenishing potions are doing what they’re meant to do, and at this point, time is what’s needed most.”

“What about—” Harry gestures roughly at his own abdomen.

The healer’s expression is sympathetic. “His body is undergoing changes. He was already four months into the pregnancy, and right now we can’t tell whether he lost the child because his body was unable to properly adapt, or if there was some other extenuating circumstance.”

Harry’s lips press thinly. “Emmaline.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Her name is Emmaline,” Harry says slowly. “Not _the child_. And shouldn’t you have noticed before now if he wasn’t going to be able to carry her to term? You’ve been saying all along that he was progressing perfectly—”

“And he was, Mr. P—Harry.” The healer raises his hands, placating. “There are more diagnostics we need to do as he heals. And if you give us permission to look at the chi—”

“ _Emmaline,_ ” Harry growls.

“Emmaline,” the healer repeats, softly. “We may be able to determine more, including whether trying again would be too much of a risk.”

That’s their daughter the healer is speaking of, as calmly and coldly as if she were a medical experiment. Harry swallows hard, voice shaking, “I can’t answer that. Not until Neville’s awake.”

“I understand.”

The healer’s touch on his arm is careful, and Harry takes no comfort from it. It is just another thing that people do, like saying _I’m sorry_ when what they really mean is _thank God it didn’t happen to me_.

#

“I’m so sorry.” Hermione gathers Harry in close, kissing his cheek. “I know how much this meant to you.”

Of course she does. The words are empty to Harry’s ears. Hermione has it easy. Two children, and a third on the way, her belly gently rounded. Her child and Emmaline would have been born within weeks of each other. They should have grown up together. But they won’t. Can’t.

“I’m fine,” he says, but he’s not. When Hermione tries to take him out to get a bite to eat, Harry declines. He can’t leave Neville alone.

She tries to draw him out, to bring him into the sunshine, and he refuses, folding himself back into the uncomfortable chair next to the bed. He takes Neville’s hands and raises it to his lips, holding on tightly.

#

“Harry.”

His eyes open and he squeezes Neville’s hand hard. “I’m here. What do you need? It’s almost time for your next round of potions—”

“Stop.” Neville’s eyes are closed, skin pale as he lays back against the pillows. Round cheeks are sunken and drawn. “I’m alright, Harry. How are you doing?”

Harry stares at him. How like Neville to be asking after him, when he’s not the one that’s been through hell. “I’m not the one who almost di—”

“I didn’t though.” Neville interrupts him, dark eyes opening. “I’m right here.”

“But I—” Harry stumbles, not sure how to phrase this. His thumb rubs against Neville’s hand, almost too hard to be comforting as he tries to take his own comfort from the touch. “It’s my fault,” he whispers. “I wanted our child so badly, and you—you almost paid for it.”

Neville’s eyes close. “I wanted her just as badly as you did, Harry,” he says quietly. His free hand falls to his abdomen, disturbingly flat beneath the blankets.

Harry strokes Neville’s hair as they both cry.

#

“While you’re home, make certain that you take the blood replenishing potion three times a day for the next month,” the healer cautions, making sure Harry has the bag of supplies for Neville. Harry nods with every instruction, his hand never leaving his husband’s shoulder. Neville’s eyes are closed and he is silent, and Harry worries.

“Is it too soon?” he asks as soon as the healer leaves them alone.

Neville shakes his head. He is in a chair that glides magically—much better than a wheelchair, in Harry’s opinion. He can walk, but not far, and not for long. He still tires easily, and the healer says that it may be another month before his body is back to normal. He suffers from the shock of his body trying to still grow a child that is no longer there.

It will be longer before they know if there is even a chance that they could try again.

Harry is afraid to ask whether Neville even _wants_ to try again. He wants to say they could adopt. He wants to say that it’s okay, that it isn’t a failure, but he knows in his heart it is. He wants a child of his own blood, his and Neville’s. Nothing else would be quite the same.

He can’t say any of that.

“Are you ready to go, Neville?”

“Yeah.”

When Neville looks up, Harry looks down, and he can’t resist bending to drop a quick kiss on Neville’s lips. He wants to say _I love you_ , but this is the best he can do right now. Neville gives him a half smile, and Harry knows he heard the unsaid words. Neville’s always been good like that, knowing Harry better than he knows himself sometimes.

“Let’s go home.”


	2. Then

Harry laughed, sprawled on the floor, playing with the children. When Teddy finally grew tired, he settled onto the couch next to Ron, holding out his arms and taking the small child Ron was feeding. “Go on,” Harry said, nudging him. “Go see what Hermione’s up to. I’ll finish giving him his bottle.”

“You’ll need to burp him,” Ron reminded him. “Here’s his blanket, and you’ll want to be careful—”

“Ron.” Harry laughed again. “This isn’t the first time I’ve helped with your children. I know what I’m doing.”

After a moment’s more fussing, Ron finally walked away, allowing Harry some time with his godson. He treasured these moments, where he could steal his mate’s child and pretend, for a moment, that this was his family. That this was his life.

Harry knew this was all he’d ever have. He’d known it since he was eighteen and finally able to take a good long look at himself after the war and realize that he preferred guys. Overwhelmingly so. He’d given up the idea of a family at the same time as he’d broken things off with Ginny.

As Neville settled in next to him on the sofa, Harry knew he’d gained something brilliant when he’d come out to himself. He’d been surprised one day to turn around and see Neville standing there in some shop in Diagon Alley, and he’d somehow suddenly known that this was what he’d been looking for.

Now he had the lover he’d always wanted.

But he’d never have children.

Harry smiled at his husband, then bent his head to brush a kiss against the top of his godson’s head.

“Harry…” Neville covered Harry’s hand with his own, waiting patiently until Harry looked at him. Neville’s dark eyes were serious as he asked, “Do you want children?”

“How is that you always read my mind?” Harry picked the baby up, balancing him carefully against his shoulder and patting his back until he let out a burp. “I would, yes, but it’s just not possible.”

“What if it were?”

Harry’s hand stilled on the baby’s back and he turned to face Neville slowly. “I’m not going to go have sex with a woman just to have a baby,” he said firmly. “Even if I wanted to have sex with a woman in the first place, which I don’t. Or even sex with anyone but you.”

“That’s not what I said.” Neville tried to take his hand, a small smile starting when the baby squirmed. “This isn’t easy, trying to talk around a baby, you know.”

“Maybe it’s time for us to go, then.”

#

They were in bed that night before Harry brought it up again. Naked under the covers, the room dark save for a spill of moonlight across their toes, it seemed like a safe place. “I never had much of a family,” he said quietly.

“Neither did I,” Neville pointed out. “We’ve always been alike that way. You had your aunt and uncle, I had Gran. I suppose I had it better, as she’s not actively against me, and my folks are still alive—”

“Don’t say that.” Harry leaned up to brush a kiss against his lips. “Besides, we’re family now.”

“But you want more.”

Harry nodded once, slowly. “I always wanted kids,” he admitted. “I wanted a chance to be a proper parent, to pass on all the things I love. To have a family that’s mine.”

Neville was quiet, tugging Harry to lie half over him, his hand moving over Harry’s back. “It’s possible, you know. I’m pureblooded, back far enough that I couldn’t tell you when we weren’t. There’s magic for it, the sort that doesn’t take unless there’s magic in your bones deep and true. To help make sure that we won’t die out. Even if there were only wizards left, we could still have children and go on.”

Harry grinned, kissing him hard. “I’d love that. How does it work?”

“I’d have to prepare, but then it just—it changes my body, so I can carry the child. Same as a woman, for nine months, then there are spells to ease the birth. It’s tricky.” Neville’s jaw set. “But I could do it. For you.” Love in his gaze, a soft and gentle smile. While Harry had figured this out late, Neville had told him once that he’d loved him since they first met. First as a friend, then later as more. He’d just been patient, waiting for Harry to come around. Every time Neville gave him that look, Harry remembered just how well-loved he was.

“Is it dangerous?” Harry had to ask, not surprised at all by Neville’s answering nod.

“But it’s worth it.” Neville pulled Harry in for a kiss. “It would be worth it.”

#

Neville and Harry sat on the edge of the bed, watching where a single drop of blood spread out in the puddle of potion they’d spilled into a cup. Harry’s hand found Neville’s, tangling their fingers, squeezing tightly as they waited.

Thirty seconds. Forty-five. Sixty.

One minute thirty seconds.

Harry lifted the cup, tipping it slightly. His breath rushed out in a sigh. “Blue. Nev, you’re pregnant.”

They celebrated that night, with great food and gentle sex, loving each other until the dawn hours. The next day they calculated the due date, and told Hermione and Ron. They went out to buy name books. They talked about colours for a nursery.

#

For three months and seventeen days, everything was perfect.

Then Neville started to bleed.


	3. Yet To Come

“Stop fussing, Harry. I’m fine.”

Harry pauses, his arms around Neville, helping him shakily stand from the chair. “Are you sure?” he asks, not wanting to let go just yet.

“I’ve been cleared to walk on my own,” Neville says plainly. “I might get tired, but I’ll be fine. We’ll rest if I need to. Right now, I’d just like to leave this chair behind.”

They make their way from the Leaky Cauldron, where they stow the chair, into Diagon Alley, footsteps slow and sure. They pause often, to look in windows, talk to those who stopped them along the way. Any excuse, so Harry can pretend he isn’t stopping to make sure Neville is alright, and so Neville never has to ask for a rest.

It has been three months since Emmaline, and Neville is finally beginning to heal.

#

“Harry! Neville!”

They pause mid-step, shifting to turn towards the excited call. Harry’s smile is weak as Hermione hurries towards them, her belly leading the way.

“Oh you look brilliant, Neville.” She kisses his cheek, then leans in to kiss Harry’s as well. “I’m sorry we haven’t been by, but the kids weren’t feeling well, then Ron got ill—”

“It’s alright.” Harry feels terrible thinking it, but he hasn’t wanted to see her. The cheerful chatter, her children: they are all reminders of what he and Neville have lost. “We’ve been enjoying the quiet time.”

“Yes, sometimes it’s lovely just to have time to ones’ selves, isn’t it?”

She doesn’t know what she’s saying, Harry reminds himself. She doesn’t realize she’s making it sound as if losing their daughter is a _good_ thing. She’s never been through this, so she just _doesn’t know_.

Neville’s hand on Harry’s tightens. When Harry glances over, his lover’s face seems pale and drawn. Exhausted.

“I’m glad we’ve run into you,” Harry speaks in a rush, “but we’ve got to be going. Let me know when things are better at home. We can do dinner.”

“Of course!” She kisses their cheeks again, hugging them and laughing when her baby kicks. “We will, definitely. The kids miss you.”

And at that, Harry feels another tug in his gut, uncomfortably painful. He doesn’t say a word as he walks along with Neville, but when they pass by _Enchanting Tots: Clothes for the Discerning Magical Child_ , they exchange a look before continuing on in silence.

Neville’s body may be healing, but he still leans heavily on Harry, the emotional scars still fresh and raw.

#

Harry sits on the back steps outside their small home. There are houses nearby, but no one can see him, despite the moonlit bright night. He and Neville laid the charms here together, giving themselves a measure of privacy amongst their neighbors. It took time before Neville was quite comfortable amongst the Muggles, but it made Harry feel oddly like coming home to have this around him when he wasn’t at the Ministry, or elsewhere in the world of magic. In the last years, they’d come to know their neighbors, and seemed to have been labeled _that nice gay couple down the street_ which Harry thought worked well enough.

They’d never quite discussed how they’d explain Neville’s absence while he was pregnant, or if they’d just use a glamour to cover once he started to show badly enough that oversized jumpers didn’t cover it.

Now he guesses they’ll never need to sort it out.

The door opens with a small squeak behind him, and Harry slides over on the step, automatically making room. Neville sits beside him, hand finding his, fingers curling together. After years, they have a routine. Comfort. Closeness. Harry leans against Neville’s shoulder, knowing that whatever happens, this man is his family, and his home.

Silence, for a long time. Harry closes his eyes, breathing in slow and deep. Relaxing and trying to find a way to return to normalcy. No matter what, he can still feel her presence—or the lack of her presence—between them.

His jaw tightens. He wonders how long it will be before he goes a day without thinking of Emmaline.

“I disappointed you.”

Neville’s voice is soft, matter-of-fact. Harry turns to look at him, answering quickly. “Never.”

“But I did.” His head hangs, and Neville stares at the ground a few steps below. “You wanted a family, and I couldn’t do it. My magic isn’t strong enough, Harry. I’m not good enough for you.”

Harry can’t remember ever hearing Neville this defeated. Not since they were very young, when Neville finally came to believe in himself, in part because of Harry. He blinks back tears.

“Nev. You’re everything to me.” Harry speaks slowly, squeezing Neville’s hand. “You’re my family.”

“But you want—”

“I want _you_.” Harry cuts him off, making the words as firm as he can. “Don’t ever forget that.”

“We could try again.” But Neville doesn’t look at him as he says it, so Harry touches his back lightly, waiting for Neville to look up.

Harry waits, but Neville doesn’t say anything more, so Harry prods gently, “Is that what you want, Nev? To try again?”

Silence stretches, and Harry waits this time, almost able to see Neville churning through responses in his mind. He waits, because he wants this answer to be honest. True. He doesn’t want Neville to say what he thinks Harry wants to hear.

“I don’t know,” Neville finally admits. “She was—she was a part of me, Harry. I’m not sure I can go through that again.”

 _It might not fail_ , Harry wants to say. He wants to encourage it, to say that this time it will work. He wants this child.

But he loves Neville.

“I don’t want to risk you.” Harry kisses Neville’s shoulder, lips brushing against his throat. “I want to wake up every morning and see you beside me, and I don’t need a child more than I need you here with me.”

“I might change my mind someday.” Neville sounds uncertain.

“If you do, then we can talk about it then,” Harry agrees. “But only if you mean it. We’re not going to do this just because you think I want to.”

Silence again, until Neville sucks in a deep breath, huffs it out in a shuddering sigh. “I want it too, Harry. I just don’t know—”

“Hush.” Harry catches his mouth with a kiss, not letting him say again how he’s not worthy, or that he can’t, or that he’s disappointing Harry. One kiss turns into another, and another, and a long slow, sweet snog beneath the moonlight.

#

Later, Harry lies next to Neville, one hand pressed against his belly, head resting against his chest. He hears the strong thumpthump of his heart, and it eases him.

“Goodbye, Emmaline,” he murmurs, and he feels Neville’s fingers tighten against his.

Perhaps someday they’ll get another chance at hello. Until then, they’ll treasure every moment together. Life is precious, after all. 


End file.
